


Wednesday, Three O'clock

by round_robin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Original Character - Freeform, Post Reichenbach, Pre-Slash, Shaving, Sherlock/John - friendship, Voyeurism, case related
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-15
Updated: 2012-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-31 05:40:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/340542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/round_robin/pseuds/round_robin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John gets hurt on a case and Sherlock makes it up to him in an unexpected way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wednesday, Three O'clock

**Author's Note:**

> Not betaed or Brit-picked, so all mistakes are mine.
> 
> Sherlock's extreme lack of facial hair has always made me curious, and I figured this was as good of an answer as any. The voyeurism is only if you squint.

Their last case was interesting, even Sherlock thought so. His exact words were “this is the least boring case I’ve had all year.” High praise coming from a man with the attention span of a gnat. And John knew that a write up of this case would cause the hits on his blog to triple. If he wrote it up.

But he couldn’t. And do you know why? Because this interesting case involved a hive of bees, and an allergy that John hadn’t been aware of. Not until those bees and both his arms met.

According to Sherlock, Lestrade, and half of Scotland Yard, it had been a spectacular catch. An amazing chase, followed by some daring running and jumping (mostly from Sherlock) and finally, a wonderfully executed tackle and apprehension of the murdered. Why had this been reported to John? Because while all this was going on, he was laying in the back of an ambulance, an oxygen mask held to his mouth and a dose of epinephrine large enough for a small elephant racing through his veins.

Thanks to the quick work of the paramedics (and no thanks to Sherlock, who jumped out of the way as the killer tipped the bee hive in their direction, letting John bear the whole brunt of the attack) John didn’t go into anaphylactic shock. Most of the stings had landed on his arms and fingers, so the only swelling happened there. Swelling and dermal damage, which effectively threw his manual dexterity down the toilet. Even when the swelling went down, the pain and stiffness remained. It would remain for at least two weeks.

Two weeks that John couldn’t update his blog, couldn’t work, couldn’t brush his own teeth all that well, couldn’t button his own God damned fly. Two weeks with hands that were—for the moment—vestigial organs, and a flatmate would wouldn’t lift a finger to help him. Even though it was all his fault.

The first two days were the worst, but then John got used to wearing track suit bottoms and jumpers, so he could get dressed on his own. They ordered take away often enough that he wasn’t too bad off for feeding himself, and he simply stuck his toothbrush inside the bandages when he needed to hold it still. Mostly, John managed, but there was still one thing: shaving.

John didn’t shave every day. He was alright with a bit of stubble and it really didn’t bother him. Two, three days? No problem. Five days? Problem. A big problem in the form of an itchy beard that he couldn’t scratch. He tried rubbing at it with his bandaged fingers, but that irritated his skin and his fingers. He could only nuzzle his face against available surfaces when Sherlock wasn’t home to catch him, which was never.

Ever since John’s run-in with the bees, the consulting detective hadn’t left the flat. Not even to take a new case or go yell at Anderson. He just sat in his chair, watching John’s suffering and not helping. Normally, John wouldn’t mind Sherlock’s presence. They were friends and colleagues, after all, they did like each other. It was just recently that he didn’t want to be in Sherlock’s company. If he wasn’t even willing to help John during the situation he caused, then John didn’t want to see him.

Right now, John was rubbing his chin against his shoulder. The jumper he wore had a thick cable-knit and provided some relief. Sadly, it wasn’t nearly enough.

Sherlock was… somewhere. Probably in his room. He wasn’t in the kitchen or the bathroom, but he was here, intruding on John’s anger. He never understood why Sherlock found the presence of others distracting, but John got it now. All he wanted was to be angry and sore in peace, but since Sherlock insisted on being somewhere in the flat, he couldn’t.

After another moment of futile scratching against his shoulder, John gave up. Just as he slumped back onto the sofa, Sherlock’s bedroom door swung open and the man himself strode out. “Get up, John.” He ordered casually, walking over to the door and grabbing their coats.

John groaned when he saw Sherlock holding his coat too. “Sherlock, no. I’m sore, irritated, and my hands don’t work. What use will I be to you?” John didn’t really care about his usefulness, he just wanted to be alone.

Sherlock didn’t seem to be paying attention to him. He walked over and grabbed John around the bicep, pulling him to his feet. “Hurry up, we’ll be late.”

“Late?” John asked as he was manhandled into his coat. “Late for what?”

Sherlock stopped and gave John a look that said “are you really this stupid?” He knew that look well. “With your hands in such a state, you haven’t been able to shave,” among other things. “I feel slightly responsible—”

“Slightly?” John snapped. “More like completely.”

“Be that as it may,” Sherlock kept going. He wouldn’t let John say no to this, not when he was actually trying to help. “I have a way to help you with this particular problem, and if we don’t leave now, we’re going to be late.”

John still wasn’t moving. Not when Sherlock turned, walked over to the door and opened it pointedly. “Sherlock,” he sighed. “Are you taking me somewhere to be shaved?” Did such places still exist?

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded. “Men have other people shave their faces all the time, they’re called barbers.” Oh, John thought, that made sense. “I have a standing weekly appointment at one such establishment, and considering you are in such great need, I’m giving it to you.” When John didn’t move, Sherlock sighed. “I promise I’ll explain in the cab. Can we just go?”

He didn’t know what made him do it. Maybe it was morbid curiosity; Sherlock’s jaw was always baby smooth, he had to shave, right? Though, John had never seen any razor but his own in the bathroom. Did Sherlock really go to a barber every day? For a shave?

Finally, John relented and followed Sherlock out of the flat. In a moment, they were in the back of a cab, headed off towards this mysterious barber shop. “Talk,” John ordered.

“Mort is an old family friend,” he started. For once, Sherlock was being free with his information instead of keeping it locked up inside that brilliant head. “Both Mycroft and my father went to him from time to time. His father owned the shop before him, and I’m told that my grandfather was a very good customer. I keep a standing weekly appointment with him. Every Wednesday, three o’clock.”

“Weekly?” John asked, eyeing Sherlock’s jaw. As smooth as ever. “You stay clean-shaven for a week?”

“Straight-razor shave, keeps the hair away for days on end.” Sherlock answered. John’s throat tightened in fear. “It’s very safe,” Sherlock assured him. “The blade is sharp, yes, but Mort is an old hand. My family isn’t the only one to have a legacy through his shop. As Mort tells it, five former Prime Ministers, countless MPs, and a good deal of the Royal Family are loyal customers.”

In the first show of comfort for his friend’s predicament, Sherlock reached over and gave John’s leg a gentle pat. “The most influential throats of our modern era have passed under Mort’s razor, and all of them have gone unharmed.” The fingers on his thigh squeezed a bit, but John was too busy looking at Sherlock’s face. He seemed… sorry. “I know you think I’ve been ignoring you. I just wanted to find the best way to convey how sorry I was.” Eyes didn’t move away from John’s as Sherlock nodded towards his jaw. “Out of everything the issue with your hands has caused, this seems to irritate you the most. I happen to have a way to fix it.”

It took John a second, but eventually he got it. Sherlock hadn’t been ignoring him… he just didn’t know what to do. He was plenty sorry for what happened with John and the bees, especially for his hand in it, but he hadn’t been able to come up with a suitable apology. Sherlock Holmes was not a man who apologized, so John understood why it took him this long to think of something. And it was something that sounded… nice.

“Thank you,” John nodded.

Sherlock nodded, breaking his gaze away from the other man’s. “Yes, well.”

The rest of the ride was silent, and Sherlock’s hand stayed on John’s thigh.

When they arrived at the barber shop, Sherlock opened the door to let John out before paying the cabbie. He stood there for a moment, looking at the shop. John had never been to a barber before, at least, not one like this. He expected one of the traditional barbers he saw in a hundred old westerns, but the stereotypical windowed shop front wasn’t there. Neither was the red and blue stripped pole, or anything else. It was just a shop. The sign over top read _Davis & Son_, and the glass door offered a small glimpse of the shop inside.

“Prime Ministers come here, John.” Sherlock said in his ear, making him jump. “It wouldn’t do to have everything open, would it?”

“No,” John nodded. “Suppose not.”

Sherlock pulled open the door for him and they walked in. The usual pictures of famous customers that decorated the walls of every TV barber shop weren’t there. Again, John remembered: MPs and Royalty come here. And Mycroft. Probably a no documentation rule….

The shop was empty, save an older man who looked about sixty. The instant he heard the bell over the door, he looked up with a wide grin on his face. “Sherlock!” He smiled, walking over and clasping the detective’s hand. “Always right on time.”

Sherlock smiled back at him, a real, genuine smile. Not one of those fake expressions he pulled out when he was trying to trick information out of someone. “Hello Mort,” now, Sherlock turned to John. “John, this is Mortimer Davis.”

“Nice to meet you,” John nodded. “I would shake hands, but…”

“Ah, yes.” Mort looked down at John’s hands and shook his head. “Terrible business. I see why Sherlock gave up his appointment to you. Don’t worry, Dr. Watson, we’ll have you right as rain in no time.” Mort turned and walked to the counter in front of the mirror. “Sit down,” he pointed at the only chair in the shop.

John sat. “How did you know I was a doctor?” He asked.

Mort just grinned, throwing the sheet around John and tying it behind his neck. “Every week Sherlock has an appointment. Every week, he tells me about his friend Dr. Watson and the things you two get up to.”

John turned to look at Sherlock. The tall man just leaned against the wall next to the door, watching. “Sherlock—” John started, but he was cut off as a hot towel wrapped around his face.

“Relaxes the hair and opens the pores,” Mort explained, then turned back to the counter. “Have you ever had a straight razor shave before, Dr. Watson?”

Sherlock answered for him. “No, he hasn’t.” He said.

“Well, you are very safe in my hands.” Mort nodded, and busied himself with the shaving foam and warming the brush in a bowl of warm water.

While he prepared everything, John turned his head to look at Sherlock. He stood stock-still by the door, unwavering, penetrating gaze locked on John. “Relax, John,” he said quietly. “You’ll enjoy this.”

Sherlock was looking at him just like he always would. The man was not the least bit afraid of making eerily direct eye-contact, and John had gotten used to it. He could even tell Sherlock’s subtle mood fluctuations—invisible to the world, billboards screaming at John—from those eyes. But right now, there was something new. A look John had never seen before. It was almost like… Sherlock was enjoying this. He wanted this to happen. He wanted to watch John get a shave.

John really didn’t know what to make of that.

Before he could try and figure anything out, the gleam of the razor in Mort’s hand caught his eye. At first, it hadn’t seemed that scary, but now—when the thing was about to be pressed so close to his Cortaid—John felt a new wave of terror.

Sherlock’s hand was on his shoulder. When had he moved? “Relax,” he said again, his fingers playing with John’s hair a bit. “Mort knows what he’s doing.”

“I just have to strop the razor. Then we can begin.” Mort explained, and went about running the blade up and down a leather strap attached to the side of the chair.

John decided to direct his attention elsewhere. Like towards Sherlock’s fingers, still playing with his hair. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the new, yet familiar feeling. Sherlock wasn’t overly fond of physical contact, but John had always seemed to have a pass on that rule. He rarely initiated contact, preferring to let John touch him. Now though, this was different. Sherlock was sharing a part of himself, and right now, he wanted to be as close as possible.

“Right,” Mort said a moment later. He reached up and took the towel off John’s face. Brush in his other hand, he started swiping foam over John’s jaw, cheeks, chin and neck. John couldn’t help but swallow when he felt it brush over his Adam’s apple. Soon, a razor blade would be pressed against that same spot. Some of the tension he’d managed to forget came back.

“Shall we begin?” Mort asked, and turned towards him, this time with the razor in his hand.

All of John’s muscles tightened up and he really, really tried not to leap from the chair and run. What started out as a good idea now sent chills down his spine. Sherlock said Mort’s record was spotless, but what if that stopped today? What if John became the first spot? A spot of blood….

Sherlock squeezed his shoulder. “Relax,” he whispered. The word of the day, apparently. “I wouldn’t put you in harm’s way.” John’s hands would beg to differ, but it distracted him long enough for Mort to make the first swipe.

The cold blade scraped against his skin in a way that was both wonderful and terrifying. In a second, it was gone, leaving nothing but smooth skin behind. It felt so good to be rid of the thick stubble that John relaxed immediately. He didn’t fear the second swipe, he welcomed it.

Seeing that John was finally at ease, Sherlock’s hand disappeared from his shoulder, only to slide down to touch John’s wrist. Just below the bandages. John didn’t mind it being there, in fact, he rather wished his hands were well enough so Sherlock could hold his hand. It wasn’t about sex or anything else that was “not Sherlock’s area,” it was about comfort. At that moment, John firmly believed there wasn’t one single thing Sherlock kept from him anymore. He was the only person allowed to see Sherlock at his most vulnerable. Of course, that came when John’s throat was similarly vulnerable. It was a beautiful kind of symmetry, symmetry John found in many parts of their friendship.

When John seemed completely comfortable with what was happening, Mort started to speak. “I’m surprised at you, Sherlock,” he said, speaking to Sherlock with his eyes firmly trained on John. The man was an expert. “You could’ve done this yourself. Especially if Dr. Watson was in such need.”

Sherlock’s lips pulled up into another one of those genuine smiles, but his eyes never left John’s. “You know me, Mort. I like to watch you work.”

“Ah, yes,” Mort smiled. “I’ll tell you something, Dr. Watson, when Sherlock was young and his father brought him here, he would sit next to the mirror and watch my hands. Memorize every move I made. By the time he was thirteen, he could’ve been my apprentice.”

“I bet,” another piece of Sherlock’s life John hadn’t known about.

Then he realized: this right here—Mort’s shop, the shave, Mort himself—that was probably the happiest bit of Sherlock’s childhood. John wouldn’t assume, but he did know a few things about gifted children. The farther ahead the mind, the farther behind the emotions, sometimes to the point where the child couldn’t handle it. The pendulum couldn’t swing one way without swinging back the other. He could just imagine it: the Holmes family, gifted with two genius little boys, and no way to understand them. For all their wealth and privilege, the Holmes parents were probably just as lost as any other parent of a prodigy. Mycroft managed to teach himself how to work in society, but that was because he probably had to look after Sherlock. Sherlock hadn’t had a similar responsibility, so his mind was left to wander, finding anything it could to chase away the mind-numbing boredom. Most of the time, it found dangerous outlets: drugs, danger, violence.

That’s what Mort’s shop gave him, a way to quiet the constant chatter in his head. With every thought racing at the speed of light, it was amazing that a young Sherlock could find a relaxing place like this. That was probably why his father took him along to his appointments; it was the only thing that calmed his whirlwind of a son.

John wished he could reach over and take Sherlock’s hand in his, but for now, he’d be satisfied with any touch at all. He was so glad his friend was letting him see this.

A few minutes later and Mort was done. He used a cool towel to wipe away any extra shaving foam, and then laid it across John’s skin. “The cold helps close the pores.” He said. He removed the towel a minute later and rubbed lotion into John’s skin, followed by a clean-smelling after shave that had just a hint of spice in the smell. “Sherlock prefers this scent,” Mort said, low in John’s ear.

John recognized the smell. He’d smelled it on Sherlock many a time. But only ever once a week, always Wednesday afternoon. He started wondering why he hadn’t noticed the standing appointment earlier, but Sherlock’s schedule was so erratic, how could John ever be certain of everything?

“Well, Dr. Watson, what do you think?” Mort moved out of the way and let John look in the mirror.

“Wow,” he said. His jaw was so smooth, it practically glistened. Lifting his bandaged fingers (the tips still barred) John sighed at the silky skin that met the soft touch. “This is amazing. Sherlock, feel.”

John thought he would have to force the detective’s hand to his jaw, but Sherlock was already reaching over. The tips of his fingers just barely brushed the soft skin, but it was enough. “Lovely,” he said in a voice that was almost a purr. John let his eyes fall shut for a second, and then the fingers were gone. For the first time since he sat down in the chair, Sherlock looked at Mort. “Excellent job, as always.”

Mort bowed his head in thanks. “Thank you, Sherlock. That’s high praise from you.”

Sherlock settled up the bill (only fifteen quid for _that_ , John couldn’t believe it) and they walked out of the shop. Sherlock hailed another cab and, again, opened the door for John.

Once they were inside and headed back towards Baker Street, John decided to go for it. “Sherlock?” He said, calling the other man’s attention.

“Yes, John?” Sherlock turned his head, turning right into John’s lips.

It wasn’t meant to be a passionate kiss. It wasn’t meant to be anything, nothing more than a soft peck of gratitude. John pulled back a second later and smiled at Sherlock. “Thank you,” he said.

The faint blush that rose along those high cheekbones was gone so quickly, John could hardly have said it was there. “Yes,” Sherlock nodded, turning his eyes forward again. “You’re welcome.”

They didn’t talk for the rest of the ride.

 

~

 

Sherlock introduced him to Mort six months before his Fall. Whenever John had a little extra time, he would pay Mort a visit for one of those amazing shaves. He even purchased a straight razor from him so he could do it at home more often, but it wasn’t the same. John always went back to Mort. Sometimes, he even accompanied Sherlock for his appointment.

John started noticing that, on the days he got a shave from Mort, Sherlock would make any excuse to be near him. Whether it was needing help with an experiment, or some crap telly Sherlock felt like watching, he always wanted John close. It wasn’t indecent or suggestive, nothing of the sort. And it wasn’t as if Sherlock was asking to change the boundaries of their friendship to something neither man really understood; he just wanted John near him. He’d shared a part of his past with John, so whenever he went back to show how much he too valued Mort, Sherlock wanted to show his gratitude that finally, someone understood. John was more than happy to be that person.

The first few days after Sherlock’s Fall were the worst. John refused to see anyone. He refused to leave the flat for anything except the funeral, and that he had to be coerced into. It was Mrs. Hudson that did him in. “John dear,” she said. “If you’re not there, I… I just don’t know how I’ll keep it together.”

He went. He stood beside Mrs. Hudson, gave her his arm to cry on. Then he went back to the flat and stayed there.

It wasn’t until Wednesday that he knew he had to go out. Not because it had been five days, hell no. Five days, five weeks, five months, the time didn’t matter. No, what mattered was that it was the first Wednesday Sherlock would not make his standing appointment. John didn’t think he could take that. So much had happened… adding one more thing to that pile—especially _this_ thing—and John didn’t think he could take it.

Putting on his coat, John caught a taxi down to Mort’s shop. He knew the older man would have read it in the papers, all of London had read about it, but John had the irrational (maybe not so irrational) desire to tell Mort for himself.

He arrived at the shop right on time, like always. The little bell over the door jingled, like always. And Mort sat in his chair, like always. The only difference was that Sherlock wasn’t there. This was the one day Sherlock should be someplace, and he wasn’t.

“Mort?” John whispered, getting the man’s attention.

Slowly, he put down the book he was reading and looked up at John. He could see it on Mort’s face: he knew. Of course he knew. “Thank you for coming, Dr. Watson.” He said softly.

John nodded, his hands shoved uselessly in his pockets. What was he supposed to say? This morning, the need to tell Mort for himself filled him so completely, John didn’t even think about what he was going to say.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Mort said. “Sherlock was a good man.”

“Thank you,” John nodded. No matter what he thought about them, Mort was the one person who never assumed he and Sherlock were a couple. Even though he’d probably come the closest to making them into one.

“Do you believe what they said in the papers?” It was a rude question, John knew it, but he had to know. This man who had known Sherlock for so long… how much faith did he have in the genius of the little boy he watched grow up?

“No,” Mort said almost immediately. “I’ve known that boy and his family since before he was born. I’ve seen what he can do…. There is no way any of it was a lie.”

A knot of fear in John’s chest burst. He didn’t even know it was there, but having it gone made everything a bit easier… for the moment at least. “Yeah,” John nodded. “Same here.”

John turned to go when Mort stood up. Placing his book on the counter, he turned the chair towards John, offering it. “He still has his standing appointment.”

For a long moment, John just stood there. Staring at the chair. Every Wednesday at three, for who knows how long, Sherlock sat in that chair. Every Wednesday at three, no one else had been allowed to sit there. Expect John. He was the exception to every rule Sherlock ever had. Sherlock Holmes doesn’t have friends, Sherlock Holmes doesn’t have feelings, Sherlock Holmes doesn’t let people touch him, Sherlock Holmes doesn’t apologize, Sherlock Holmes doesn’t let anyone interrupt his standing appointment.

Except John.

With a small nod, John pulled off his coat and hung it on the rack next to the door. Sliding into the familiar chair, he let Mort wrap the sheet around him, put the hot towel on his face, and give him a shave.

It would always be Sherlock’s standing appointment, but John would always be Sherlock’s exception.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> I've been meaning to write a story like this for a while and just got motivated today. Originally, it was going to be PWP, but then I figured out how to make it post-Reichenbach and I couldn't resist.


End file.
